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Thursday, August 2, 2012

He Told Me to Write Fiction.

"Why wait for those movie-like moments? Why not create one?"

He asks me while we lay on my roof, side-by-side staring at the sky, mistaking stars for satellites. We were convinced the blinking lights high above were moving -- not us -- not until we outstretched our hands into a diamond in front of our faces and realized we were not the center of the universe. But it felt like we were.

"I can't get out of my own head."

"...So you're depressed?"

"Yeah... How about you?"


While an actor, his front falls for me. Despite our opposing images, there is a quiet understanding. A rare friendship that breeds and begs me to...

It would've been nice to hold his hand then. Maybe, make out. Feel the graveness of his desire flood through me.

But we're just friends. There was comfort just to lay, without expectations. To have someone to be lonely with.

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